Your Character's Name: Franz Draco Never send fools to do a Keeper's job.
I didn't rise to the position of Exalted Flame Bearer by accepting failure. And before me stand three failures, averting their faces and wearing hangdog expressions. Except for the lunatic calling himself Raymond who thinks he can intimidate me by boring into me with those beady eyes. Hardly. They've come to tell me the fourth oneescaped with the DJ and, more importantly, his priceless equipment. I stroke my chin and contemplate my next move.
"We should go after her," the tall one says. My hand slows and, to the big man's credit, he barely wilts under my gaze.
Emboldened by her friend breaking the serenity of my office, the little tart speaks. "She could be in trouble. Can you give us any help?"
I bury my face in my palms, exhausted. "Rocastle!" I call out. A whisper of robes later and my assistant stands by my desk. "Rocastle, as you can see our adventurers have returned. Also as you can see, the mission was not a success. The DJ absconded with the equipment before they could seize it, and they lost a party member in the process. The young tattooed lady, you remember her don't you? It seems that she fled--or was possibly taken hostage," I add before the other girl could interject, "And they fear for her safety. What advice might you give?"
Rocastle casts his best withering gaze. It's getting better but he always looks a bit constipated when he tries it. Then he glances back to me, the question in his eyes. I make a small gesture with my hand. Go on, Rocastle, it says. Tell them.
"I trust she's perfectly safe," he says with the perfect amount of smugness. Perhaps he's coming along faster than I suspected.
"How do you know?" the tall one asks and before Rocastle answers, I see Raymond's body tense. Clever boy's figured it out, too late.
We soak in that delicious silence for a moment. The only redeeming part of a perfectly miserable evening.
"You knew?" Ray asks.
"Knew?" I allow some heat into my voice. "We planned it. Do you think Curators let anyone off the street wander into their carefully choreographed reenactments? She has a mark here," I said drawing back my sleeve and showing my forearm. "Disguised unless you know what you're looking for. She keeps it well-hidden but the Flame has more than one eye, as we say."
"Where did they go?" the tall one asks stepping forward. In him I see genuine concern for this harpy.
"The Art Museum, of course" I grumble. "They have a network of tunnels that lead straight to it." Yes, they pull the equipment back to the museum. Hardwick will hear of this failed plot before morning, if she doesn't know already. I drum my fingers on the desk, stopping when I see Rocastle's glance. I draw my hands inside my sleeves so our visitors won't see me fidget. Waves of nervous energy radiate from Rocastle as though he can follow each permutation I'm running through my mind. They'll double the guard at the other museum as well; they might call in part-timers from New Bottsford for backup. Is now the time? Do all my years in power lead me to this decision? My first bet failed. You'd expect an old head like me to cut my losses and keep the chips that I have. Rocastle is breathing down my neck.
I notice the three visitors have been quietly bickering amongst themselves, their voices slowly rising as they argue about their plan of action. Amazingly, they're still standing before me as if expecting orders or waiting to be dismissed. "Silence!" Rocastle thunders and strikes my desk with his fist and I am so taken aback by his sudden audacity and sense of authority that he makes my decision for me.
The room goes silent. The tension is palpable. We hear novitiates stirring in the halls.
"Gather Lucio, Erich, and Kitten. Dispatch the girl to the Chabad and the other two to the courthouse. Hurry."
"Bearing what message, your grace?" he asks and swallows. He knows he's overstepped.
"And you three," I say with measured calm, pointing from the depths of my sleeves. "Your abject failure has compromised the position of the Keepers, and that I will not abide. But I am a fair man and shall offer you a choice. Go to the museum, gain entrance by whatever means necessary, and return to me with that stereo system. I don't care about your friend or anyone else, but the DJ either comes with you or he never steps out of that building again. Do you understand?"
"This isn't happening," Rocastle says, seeing his carefully cultivated future crumbling before him. Better to risk it all on one last throw of the dice rather than have this one usurp my throne from beneath me.
"I'm afraid so, assistant" I say icily. "I hereby authorize the search and seizure of artifacts from every known Curator-held position, by force if necessary. From this moment forth, the Curators and Keepers are at war."
Never send fools to do a Keeper's job.
I didn't rise to the position of Exalted Flame Bearer by accepting failure. And before me stand three failures, averting their faces and wearing hangdog expressions. Except for the lunatic calling himself Raymond who thinks he can intimidate me by boring into me with those beady eyes. Hardly. They've come to tell me the fourth one escaped with the DJ and, more importantly, his priceless equipment. I stroke my chin and contemplate my next move.
"We should go after her," the tall one says. My hand slows and, to the big man's credit, he barely wilts under my gaze.
Emboldened by her friend breaking the serenity of my office, the little tart speaks. "She could be in trouble. Can you give us any help?"
I bury my face in my palms, exhausted. "Rocastle!" I call out. A whisper of robes later and my assistant stands by my desk. "Rocastle, as you can see our adventurers have returned. Also as you can see, the mission was not a success. The DJ absconded with the equipment before they could seize it, and they lost a party member in the process. The young tattooed lady, you remember her don't you? It seems that she fled--or was possibly taken hostage," I add before the other girl could interject, "And they fear for her safety. What advice might you give?"
Rocastle casts his best withering gaze. It's getting better but he always looks a bit constipated when he tries it. Then he glances back to me, the question in his eyes. I make a small gesture with my hand. Go on, Rocastle, it says. Tell them.
"I trust she's perfectly safe," he says with the perfect amount of smugness. Perhaps he's coming along faster than I suspected.
"How do you know?" the tall one asks and before Rocastle answers, I see Raymond's body tense. Clever boy's figured it out, too late.
"Because she's a Curator of course."
We soak in that delicious silence for a moment. The only redeeming part of a perfectly miserable evening.
"You knew?" Ray asks.
"Knew?" I allow some heat into my voice. "We planned it. Do you think Curators let anyone off the street wander into their carefully choreographed reenactments? She has a mark here," I said drawing back my sleeve and showing my forearm. "Disguised unless you know what you're looking for. She keeps it well-hidden but the Flame has more than one eye, as we say."
"Where did they go?" the tall one asks stepping forward. In him I see genuine concern for this harpy.
"The Art Museum, of course" I grumble. "They have a network of tunnels that lead straight to it." Yes, they pull the equipment back to the museum. Hardwick will hear of this failed plot before morning, if she doesn't know already. I drum my fingers on the desk, stopping when I see Rocastle's glance. I draw my hands inside my sleeves so our visitors won't see me fidget. Waves of nervous energy radiate from Rocastle as though he can follow each permutation I'm running through my mind. They'll double the guard at the other museum as well; they might call in part-timers from New Bottsford for backup. Is now the time? Do all my years in power lead me to this decision? My first bet failed. You'd expect an old head like me to cut my losses and keep the chips that I have. Rocastle is breathing down my neck.
I notice the three visitors have been quietly bickering amongst themselves, their voices slowly rising as they argue about their plan of action. Amazingly, they're still standing before me as if expecting orders or waiting to be dismissed. "Silence!" Rocastle thunders and strikes my desk with his fist and I am so taken aback by his sudden audacity and sense of authority that he makes my decision for me.
The room goes silent. The tension is palpable. We hear novitiates stirring in the halls.
"Gather Lucio, Erich, and Kitten. Dispatch the girl to the Chabad and the other two to the courthouse. Hurry."
"Bearing what message, your grace?" he asks and swallows. He knows he's overstepped.
"And you three," I say with measured calm, pointing from the depths of my sleeves. "Your abject failure has compromised the position of the Keepers, and that I will not abide. But I am a fair man and shall offer you a choice. Go to the museum, gain entrance by whatever means necessary, and return to me with that stereo system. I don't care about your friend or anyone else, but the DJ either comes with you or he never steps out of that building again. Do you understand?"
"This isn't happening," Rocastle says, seeing his carefully cultivated future crumbling before him. Better to risk it all on one last throw of the dice rather than have this one usurp my throne from beneath me.
"I'm afraid so, assistant" I say icily. "I hereby authorize the search and seizure of artifacts from every known Curator-held position, by force if necessary. From this moment forth, the Curators and Keepers are at war."